


The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, I Love Christmas But It's Complicated, Loneliness, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Peter Lukas loves Christmas.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the phrase, "Peter Lukas loves Christmas," in my head for over a year now, and a half finished WIP sitting around for just as long. Here you go, my gift to you.

Peter Lukas loves Christmas.

Not that Peter has ever _celebrated_ Christmas of course. As a child there had been no brightly decorated Christmas tree, no sugar cookies cut out into festive shapes, no presents wrapped in colorful paper, and _certainly_ no family gatherings. He _had_ attended an office Christmas party with Elias once though, a memory that Peter regards with a distant fondness as he walks the streets of London, imperceivable as he walks through the crowds of last minute holiday shoppers, not bumping into anyone by simple virtue of the fact that he is somewhere people just _aren’t_ , a half step removed from the world. That party had been the cause of their… had it been their fifth divorce? Sixth?

Peter keeps walking with a purposeful stride, smiling as he watches people pass. It’s snowing, and the tiny flakes fall without settling on his skin. Snowing on Christmas Eve, so delightfully stereotypical that it’s almost charming. All around Peter are twinkling lights and the sound of carols, laughing children walking with their parents and lovers walking hand in hand, stealing kisses in the falling snow. All the togetherness, all that _connection_ only serves to make the contrast stronger to Peter’s eyes. An outsider would only see the warmth, the light, the smiles. To Peter, all those things are sandbars that the currents of loneliness swirl around.

Christmas time is an embarrassment of riches as far as the feeding of his patron is concerned. Behind the light and warmth of the holiday there are always people who have fallen into the shadows, into the coldness of their own thoughts. The ones that have hope that somehow the ‘magic of the holidays’ will touch them _this_ year, will bring them what they need to fill their heart, only to find themself still alone come Christmas? Those are the best ones, the ones that have the fear and despair of loneliness sunk into their bones and built up in layers around their heart the same way an oyster makes pearls. Peter takes a few of these as he walks, knowing them by their desperate smiles, their forced cheer, their stale hope. No one notices their absence, not in the noise and the crowds.

Church bells ring as a Christmas Eve service lets out, and Peter watches as the devout stream through the doors, rushing off to other business, their duty to their deity done. It’s an unremarkable event, yet something haltsPeter’s steps, anticipation swirling around him like the snowflakes in the air. He finds his eyes being drawn to a couple walking hand in hand down the church steps, a young man and a woman, both of them smiling, cheeks pink in the cold. The young man looks a little distracted as they reach the bottom of the steps, and Peter notices the bulge in his jacket moments before the man reaches into his pocket and produces the ring box with a fumbling flourish as he goes down on one knee.

The woman squeaks in surprise and Peter smiles as she nods enthusiastically, holding out the wrong hand for her young man to slip the ring on in her excitement, blushing as she corrects her mistake. A Christmas Eve engagement, like something out of one of the movies that were so popular this time of year. This was a memory that would be cherished for always, a story told every year at Christmas, surrounded by friends and family who had heard it before and would hear it again and again, basking in the warm smiles of the happy couple.

Peter waits until the man slips the ring on the woman’s finger before whisking him away in a flurry of snowflakes. It’s the woman’s confusion and blossoming fear that he savors as he begins to walk once more, humming to himself.

The crowded streets of London slowly give way to less crowded walkways, towering flats settling down to more modest homes. Warm light shines from every window as Peter walks, but it cannot touch him or the solitude that he’s wrapped around himself, warm as any scarf. Peter loves the light, loves seeing the shadows of people moving through their homes as he himself walks outside, alone, unseen. It makes him feel _separate._ Apart. It’s the most holy of feelings.

Peter walks with no real destination in mind, but there’s a feeling of _rightness_ when he stops in front of one house in particular. The Christmas lights are all perfectly placed, the decorations in the yard arranged just so. Even the snow on the roof is picturesque. From the sidewalk he can see in through the living room window where two children are building a gingerbread house. It could be a scene from a postcard, or an holiday advertisement for flour. To an outsider it would look perfect. To Peter it looks perfect as well, a perfect target for one of the Lightless Flame’s people. When the door slams open, knocking the bright evergreen wreath that had been hung upon it into the snow, Peter almost expects flames and ash to follow in the wake of the person stomping out into the night. Instead there is only the sharp scent of snow mixed with the warm smell of sugar cookies and anger, the cold certainty that they will never be understood radiating from them in that wordless way Peter has seen in a thousand sulky teens.

No one follows this young person out into the night, tries to coax them back with kind words or bully them back inside with harsh ones. Instead the door clicks shut, trapping warmth and perfection inside, locking out all that is _other._ Peter watches as the young person looks back at the house, feels their desire to be accepted and loved and warm war with resentment and their wish to _just be left alone_.

Peter could grant that wish easily, and indeed is about to do so when the young person looks over at him. Not simply in his direction. _At him._ There’s no skin crawling sensation that he’s being Seen or Known, but Peter definitely feels like he’s being _perceived._ Well then. That changes things.

“Merry Christmas,” Peter says with a nod, then turns and walks away with a small smile, leaving the fledgling avatar to find their own way as, above him, the snow turns into rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m [angel-ascending](http://angel-ascending.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr and [angel_in_ink](http://twitter.com/angel_in_ink) over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


End file.
